You know, we might just make it, said Rawlins.
Dont start gettin comfortable. Let's just take it a day at a time.
How much money you think it would take to get out of here?
I dont know. I'd say a lot.
I would too.
We aint heard from the captain's buddies in here. I guess they're waitin to see if there's goin to be anything left to bail out.
He held out the can toward Rawlins.
Finish it, said Rawlins.
Take it. There aint but a sup.
He took the can and drained it and poured a little water in and swirled it about and drank that and sat looking into the empty can.
If they think we're rich how come they aint looked after us no better? he said.
I dont know. I know they dont run this place. All they run is what comes in and what goes out.
If that, said Rawlins.
The floodlights came on from the upper walls. Figures that had been moving in the yard froze, then they moved again.
The horn's fixin to blow.
We got a couple of minutes.
I never knowed there was such a place as this.
I guess there's probably every kind of place you can think of.
Rawlins nodded. I wouldnt of thought of this one, he said.
It was raining somewhere out in the desert. They could smell the wet creosote on the wind. Lights came on in a makeshift cinderblock house built into one corner of the prison wall where a prisoner of means lived like an exiled satrap complete with cook and bodyguard. There was a screen door to the house and a figure crossed behind it and crossed back. On the roof a clothesline where the prisoner's clothes luffed gently in the night breeze like flags of state. Rawlins nodded toward the lights.
You ever see him?
Yeah. One time. He was standin in the door one evenin smokin him a cigar.
You picked up on any of the lingo in here?
Some.
What's a pucha?
A cigarette butt.
Then what's a tecolata?
Same thing.
How many damn names have they got for a cigarette butt?
I dont know. You know what a papazote is?
No, what?
A big shot.
That's what they call the dude that lives yonder.
Yeah.
And we're a couple of gabachos.
Bolillos.
Pendejos.
Anybody can be a pendejo, said John Grady. That just means asshole.
Yeah? Well, we're the biggest ones in here.
I wont dispute it.
They sat.
What are you thinkin about, said Rawlins.
Thinkin about how much it's goin to hurt to get up from here.
Rawlins nodded. They watched the prisoners moving under the glare of the lights.
All over a goddamned horse, said Rawlins.
John Grady leaned and spat between his boots and leaned back. Horse had nothin to do with it, he said.
That night they lay in their cell on the iron racks like acolytes and listened to the silence and a rattling snore somewhere in the block and a dog barking faintly in the distance and the silence and each other breathing in the silence both still awake.
We think we're a couple of pretty tough cowboys, said Rawlins.
Yeah. Maybe.
They could kill us any time.
Yeah. I know.
Two days later the papazote sent for them. A tall thin man crossed the quadrangle in the evening to where they sat and bent and asked them to come with him and then rose and strode off again. He didnt even look back to see if they'd rise to follow.
What do you want to do? said Rawlins.
John Grady rose stiffly and dusted the seat of his trousers with one hand.
Get your ass up from there, he said.
The man's name was Perez. His house was a single room in the center of which stood a tin foldingtable and four chairs. Against one wall was a small iron bed and in one corner a cupboard and a shelf with some dishes and a threeburner gas-ring. Perez was standing looking out his small window at the yard. When he turned he made an airy gesture with two fingers and the man who'd come to fetch them stepped back out and closed the door.
My name is Emilio Perez, he said. Please. Sit down.
They pulled out chairs at the table and sat. The floor of the room was made of boards but they were not nailed to anything. The blocks of the walls were not mortared and the unpeeled roofpoles were only dropped loosely into the topmost course and the sheets of roofingtin overhead were held down by blocks stacked along their edges. A few men could have disassembled and stacked the structure in half an hour. Yet there was an electric light and a gasburning heater. A carpet. Pictures from calendars pinned to the walls.
You young boys, he said. You enjoy very much to fight, yes?
Rawlins started to speak but John Grady cut him off. Yes, he said. We like it a lot.
Perez smiled. He was a man about forty with graying hair and moustache, lithe and trim. He pulled out the third chair and stepped over the back of it with a studied casualness and sat and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. The table had been painted green with a brush and the logo of a brewery was partly visible through the paint. He folded his hands.
All this fighting, he said. How long have you been here?
About a week.
How long do you plan to stay?
We never planned to come here in the first place, Rawlins said. I dont believe our plans has got much to do with it.
Perez smiled. The Americans dont stay so long with us, he said. Sometimes they come here for some months. Two or three. Then they leave. Life here is not so good for the Americans. They dont like it so much.
Can you get us out of here?
Perez spaced his hands apart and made a shrugging gesture. Yes, he said. I can do this, of course.
Why dont you get yourself out, said Rawlins.
He leaned back. He smiled again. The gesture he made of throwing his hands suddenly away from him like birds dismissed sorted oddly with his general air of containment. As if he thought it perhaps an american gesture which they would understand.
I have political enemies. What else? Let me be clear with you. I do not live here so very good. I must have money to make my own arrangements and this is a very expensive business. A very expensive business.
You're diggin a dry hole, said John Grady. We dont have no money.
Perez regarded them gravely.
If you dont have no money how can you be release from your confinement?
You tell us.
But there is nothing to tell. Without money you can do nothing.
Then I dont guess we'll be goin anywheres.
Perez studied them. He leaned forward and folded his hands again. He seemed to be giving thought how to put things.
This is a serious business, he said. You dont understand the life here. You think this struggle is for these things. Some shoelaces or some cigarettes or something like that. The lucha. This is a naive view. You know what is naive? A naive view. The real facts are always otherwise. You cannot stay in this place and be independent peoples. You dont know what is the situation here. You dont speak the language.
He speaks it, said Rawlins.
Perez shook his head. No, he said. You dont speak it. Maybe in a year here you might understand. But you dont have no year. You dont have no time. If you dont show faith to me I cannot help you. You understand me? I cannot offer to you my help.
John Grady looked at Rawlins. You ready, bud?
Yeah. I'm ready.
They pushed back their chairs and rose.
Perez looked up at them. Sit down please, he said.
There's nothin to sit about.
He drummed his fingers on the table. You are very foolish, he said. Very foolish.
John Grady stood with his hand on the door. He turned and looked at Perez. His face misshapen and his jaw bowed out and
his eye still swollen closed and blue as a plum.
Why dont you tell us what's out there? he said. You talk about showin faith. If we dont know then why dont you tell us?
Perez had not risen from the table. He leaned back and looked at them.
I cannot tell you, he said. That is the truth. I can say certain things about those who come under my protection. But the others?
He made a little gesture of dismissal with the back of his hand.
The others are simply outside. They live in a world of possibility that has no end. Perhaps God can say what is to become of them. But I cannot.
The next morning crossing the yard Rawlins was set upon by a man with a knife. The man he'd never seen before and the knife was no homemade trucha ground out of a trenchspoon but an Italian switchblade with black horn handles and nickle bolsters and he held it at waist level and passed it three times across Rawlins' shirt while Rawlins leaped three times backward with his shoulders hunched and his arms outflung like a man refereeing his own bloodletting. At the third pass he turned and ran. He ran with one hand across his stomach and his shirt was wet and sticky.
When John Grady got to him he was sitting with his back to the wall holding his arms crossed over his stomach and rocking back and forth as if he were cold. John Grady knelt and tried to pull his arms away.
Let me see, damn it.
That son of a bitch. That son of a bitch.
Let me see.
Rawlins leaned back. Aw shit, he said.
John Grady lifted the bloodsoaked shirt.
It aint that bad, he said. It aint that bad.
He cupped his hand and ran it across Rawlins' stomach to chase the blood. The lowest cut was the deepest and it had severed the outer fascia but it had not gone through into the stomach wall. Rawlins looked down at the cuts. It aint good, he said. Son of a bitch.
Can you walk?
Yeah, I can walk.
Come on.
Aw shit, said Rawlins. Son of a bitch.
Come on, bud. You cant set here.
He helped Rawlins to his feet.
Come on, he said. I got you.
They crossed the quadrangle to the gateshack. The guard looked out through the sallyport. He looked at John Grady and he looked at Rawlins. Then he opened the gate and John Grady passed Rawlins into the hands of his captors.
They sat him in a chair and sent for the alcaide. Blood dripped slowly onto the stone floor beneath him. He sat holding his stomach with both hands. After a while someone handed him a towel.
In the days that followed John Grady moved about the compound as little as possible. He watched everywhere for the cuchillero who would manifest himself from among the anonymous eyes that watched back. Nothing occurred. He had a few friends among the inmates. An older man from the state of Yucatan who was outside of the factions but was treated with respect. A dark indian from Sierra Leon. Two brothers named Bautista who had killed a policeman in Monterrey and set fire to the body and were arrested with the older brother wearing the policeman's shoes. All agreed that Perez was a man whose power could only be guessed at. Some said he was not confined to the prison at all but went abroad at night. That he kept a wife and family in the town. A mistress.
He tried to get some word from the guards concerning Rawlins but they claimed to know nothing. On the morning of the third day after the stabbing he crossed the yard and tapped at Perez's door. The drone of noise in the yard behind him almost ceased altogether. He could feel the eyes on him and when Perez's tall chamberlain opened the door he only glanced at him and then looked beyond and raked the compound with his eyes.
Quisiera hablar con el senor Perez, said John Grady.
Con respecto de que?
Con respecto de mi cuate.
He shut the door. John Grady waited. After a while the door opened again. Pasale, said the chamberlain.
John Grady stepped into the room. Perez's man shut the door and then stood against it. Perez sat at his table.
How is the condition of your friend? he said.
That's what I come to ask you.
Perez smiled.
Sit down. Please.
Is he alive?
Sit down. I insist.
He stepped to the table and pulled back a chair and sat.
Perhaps you like some coffee.
No thank you.
Perez leaned back.
Tell me what I can do for you, he said.
You can tell me how my friend is.
But if I answer this question then you will go away.
What would you want me to stay for?
Perez smiled. My goodness, he said. To tell me stories of your life of crime. Of course.
John Grady studied him.
Like all men of means, said Perez, my only desire is to be entertained.
Me toma el pelo.
Yes. In english you say the leg, I believe.
Yes. Are you a man of means?
No. It is a joke. I enjoy to practice my english. It passes the time. Where did you learn castellano?
At home.
In Texas.
Yes.
You learn it from the servants.
We didnt have no servants. We had people worked on the place.
You have been in some prison before.
No.
You are the oveja negra, no? The black sheep?
You dont know nothin about me.
Perhaps not. Tell me, why do you believe that you can be release from your confinement in some abnormal way?
I told you you're diggin a dry hole. You dont know what I believe.
I know the United States. I have been there many times. You are like the jews. There is always a rich relative. What prison were you in?
You know I aint been in no prison. Where is Rawlins?
You think I am responsible for the incident to your friend. But that is not the case.
You think I came here to do business. All I want is to know what's happened to him.
Perez nodded thoughtfully. Even in a place like this where we are concerned with fundamental things the mind of the anglo is closed in this rare way. At one time I thought it was only his life of privilege. But it is not that. It is his mind.
He sat back easily. He tapped his temple. It is not that he is stupid. It is that his picture of the world is incomplete. In this rare way. He looks only where he wishes to see. You understand me?
I understand you.
Good, said Perez. I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am.
I dont think you're stupid. I just dont like you.
Ah, said Perez. Very good. Very good.
John Grady looked at Perez's man standing against the door. He stood with his eyes caged, looking at nothing.
He doesnt understand what we are saying, said Perez. Feel free to express yourself.
I've done expressed myself.
Yes.
I got to go.
Do you think you can go if I dont want you to go?
Yes.
Perez smiled. Are you a cuchillero?
John Grady sat back.
A prison is like a--how do you call it? A salon de belleza.
A beauty parlor.
A beauty parlor. It is a big place for gossip. Everybody knows the story of everybody. Because crime is very interesting. Everybody knows that.
We never committed any crimes.
Perhaps not yet.
What does that mean?
Perez shrugged. They are still looking. Your case is not decided. Did you think your case was decided?
They wont find anything.
My goodness, said Perez. My goodness. You think there are no crimes without owners? It is not a matter of finding. It is only a matter of choosing. Like picking the proper suit in a store.
They dont seem to be in any hurry.
Even in Mexico they cannot keep you indefinitely. That is why you must act. Once you are charged it will be too late. They will issu
e what is called the previas. Then there are many difficulties.
He took his cigarettes from his shirtpocket and offered them across the table. John Grady didnt move.
Please, said Perez. It is all right. It is not the same as breaking bread. It places one under no obligation.
He leaned forward and took a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Perez took a lighter from his pocket and snapped it open and lit it and held it across the table.
Where did you learn to fight? he said.
John Grady took a deep pull on the cigarette and leaned back.
What do you want to know? he said.
Only what the world wants to know.
What does the world want to know.
The world wants to know if you have cojones. If you are brave.
He lit his own cigarette and laid the lighter on top of the pack of cigarettes on the table and blew a thin stream of smoke.
Then it can decide your price, he said.
Some people dont have a price.
That is true.
What about those people?
Those people die.
I aint afraid to die.
That is good. It will help you to die. It will not help you to live.
Is Rawlins dead?
No. He is not dead.
John Grady pushed back the chair.
Perez smiled easily. You see? he said. You do just as I say.
I dont think so.
You have to make up your mind. You dont have so much time. We never have so much time as we think.
Time's the one thing I've had enough of since I come here.
I hope you will give some thought to your situation. Americans have ideas sometimes that are not so practical. They think that there are good things and bad things. They are very superstitious, you know.
You dont think there's good and bad things?
Things no. I think it is a superstition. It is the superstition of a godless people.
You think Americans are godless?
Oh yes. Dont you?
No.
I see them attack their own property. I saw a man one time destroy his car. With a big martillo. What do you call it?
Hammer.
Because it would not start. Would a Mexican do that?
I dont know.
A Mexican would not do that. The Mexican does not believe that a car can be good or evil. If there is evil in the car he knows that to destroy the car is to accomplish nothing. Because he knows where good and evil have their home. The anglo thinks in his rare way that the Mexican is superstitious. But who is the one? We know there are qualities to a thing. This car is green. Or it has a certain motor inside. But it cannot be tainted, you see. Or a man. Even a man. There can be in a man some evil. But we dont think it is his own evil. Where did he get it? How did he come to claim it? No. Evil is a true thing in Mexico. It goes about on its own legs. Maybe some day it will come to visit you. Maybe it already has.